


An Overlong Process

by wanderNavi



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: F/F, annual fic about nyc real estate, high cuisine is ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 22:51:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18647722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderNavi/pseuds/wanderNavi
Summary: Say’ri doesn’t even need hindsight to know it’s a colossal mistake for Robin and Yen’fay to ever meet and present sight only confirms all her worst expectations.





	An Overlong Process

**Author's Note:**

> Boy, I sure know how to pick these ships. I hadn’t realized that Robin/Say’ri had like … twelve fics, including one of mine, until rather recently. Need more lesbian content, I have enough boys to drown a whale already.

Not everyone can tie down a penthouse two-bedroom with a gorgeous terrace overlooking Central Park from Upper East Side with spacious windows letting in cascades of clear sunlight – _Yen’fay_ – and certainly not Say’ri back in grad school with a work scholarship barely covering the minimums of her tuition paired with Robin jockeying her way up the UN with delusions of world domination which was a life that paid, somehow, even worse.

The hunt drags them up and down Manhattan and Say’ri makes a hopeful noise for, “We can try going to Queens or Brooklyn?” which Robin immediately shoots down with, “I am not playing a game of chicken with the L train and the seven is still cursed to me.” They regrettably stay in Manhattan, even though an accidental zoom out on an apartment listing site taunts Say’ri with listings from Jersey with half the price rent and twice the floor space. If it wasn’t Jersey and the then mandatory sentence of daily rush-hour hell through Lincoln Tunnel, she’d throw everything to the wind and fill out hopelessly desperate applications.

“Say’ri, neither of us own a car and I think my license has actually expired,” is Robin’s input on the matter over pints of ice cream and cheap plum wine.

“If your license has expired, please renew it immediately. We’ll need it for photo IDs and the background checks.”

Robin scowls mutinously, but clambers to Penn Station and the tourist filled riot of Madison Square Garden the next Tuesday and subjects herself to the mutual torture of the DMV since her driver’s license _has_ expired. In fact, it had expired almost a year ago, but they never realized despite the amount of alcohol they keep buying because no one’s actually carded them since the later years of college and that had been the exception to prove the rule.

She also fills up Say’ri email inbox with notifications for open houses and listings threatening to go off market within twenty-four hours, contact the agent now. During Thursday lunch break, Say’ri discovers that Robin’s been particularly industrious, tossing down West Harlem and Koreatown and even a few concessions to Queens. She spends the half-hour reading Robin’s commentary – “kinda shitty but at this price what can you do” and “all these photos are from low angles, tricksters, loft my ass, this is less than a shoebox” – between bites of yet another sandwich from Pret as all the normal cafes stubbornly stay closed for renovations.

Their work all proves moot when during Say’ri next call with Yen’fay, he asks in a deceptively bland tone, “Have you considered Hudson Yard yet?”

“No,” Sayri admits.

“Consider Hudson Yard.”

“Please don’t,” Robin objects after the call.

“Don’t be so obstinate,” Say’ri says back, “We’ll check it out, we need the options that are there. Robin, the seven is not that bad. Just because the first time you rode it, someone had the smart idea of trying to cling to the outside of the cars and paid for that mistake, does not mean that is remotely a repeat experience.”

They go to Hudson Yard and together stare up at the construction and giant towers going up into the sky and disappearing into the low-hanging clouds. It’s, well, a mall, but beyond the cranes and screaming noise of drills, the sky over the Hudson promises magnificent sunsets that Say’ri didn’t realize she misses viscerally. Just that is enough to sway Say’ri after the first two one-bedrooms they walk in and out of, clean and quaint with friendly co-ops and concierges that learn their names within six seconds. A few streets over from the construction, the noise completely disappears into the quiet hum of semi-expensive, primarily residential areas. And the units _are_ nice, even though Robin frowns at latticed honeycombs of the Vessel while they eat a quick snack bought from the ubiquitous street carts.

“I can barely convince the interns to walk across the street for their coffee, and I pay them, while these people are all paying to exhaust themselves on sets of stairs going nowhere,” she observes. “That’s almost unfair. Is the view even remotely as good as all the promotional images make it seem? It’s almost pathetically small, surrounded by those giant skyscrapers, not at all as advertised.”

Say’ri shrugs and spears another French fry.

Still, Yen’fay is their guarantor at the end of the day, and what he wants, they mostly have to agree with.

* * *

Like a good brother, Yen’fay wants to know more about this woman his younger sister is shacking up with and what wicked intentions she has, never mind that Say’ri enthusiastically welcomes said wicked intentions. He didn’t insist on meeting earlier during Say’ri and Robin’s relationship since they are functioning adults that can normally live with financial independence. But law school costs an arm, a leg, and kidneys so this time he’s dragged into the matter.

“It’ll be better if we meet before signing any leases or documents,” Yen’fay says as his excuse.

His argument is frustratingly valid, but Say’ri still has reservations. Despite all attempts to appear otherwise, at heart, Robin’s still a half-feral free agent who mistakenly surrounded herself with people able to support and keep up with her crazy plans that life keeps failing to sabotage. She’ll also have no patience to make nice with Yen’fay beyond whatever amount the mysterious value equation she uses spits out of their first mutual impression in person.

Robin couldn’t give less of a damn about the antics of powerful people and celebrities, which is to say that after three years as a White House aide under Emmeryn’s administration with the full-time job of managing her younger brother, all paternalistic bemusement she had before dried up into a defensive immunization of actively maintained indifference.

“You’re right, but I still disagree about you two meeting,” Say’ri has to say for plausible deniability.

“You can’t hide her forever,” Yen’fay says. Then in a voice that brokers no argument that he’s been using since they were children and he’d demand from her graceful losses with all the board games he always won, making Say’ri’s occasional tantrums completely justified, “Are you two free this Friday evening? I’ll reserve a table at Masa for the three of us.”

Two hours trapped in a Michelin star sushi restaurant where it costs almost six hundred dollars just to reserve a seat, never mind the additional tax and drinks, sounds like a horrible idea. “We’re not available,” Say’ri says with desperation.

In the exact same tone as when he declares checkmates, Yen’fay says, “See you Friday,” and hangs up.

Robin’s stuck late at office for some secret project she doesn’t tell Say’ri any of the details about except for a string of angry texts complaining about the jamming printers, certain unnamed ambassadors, and the line at the nearest Dunkin’ Donuts, among things. The last time Robin dissolved into this level of frustration, she didn’t come back to the apartment until three a.m., so Say’ri cracks open her obscenely large case files and settles in for the wait.

Tonight must have been better than expected since the key rattles the front door’s lock just past one thirty and Say’ri’s sorry for being the deliverer of bad news when Robin stumbles over the threshold. There’s a coffee cup in Robin’s hand, worryingly, and Say’ri can smell the freshly brewed liquid inside.

“Yen’fay booked us a table at Masa for Friday dinner. He wants to meet you,” Say’ri says.

Robin blinks at her surrounded by an explosion of print outs and highlighters and slugs back a gulp of the coffee, then says, in far too calm a tone of voice, “Cool.”

After changing out of her suit and taking off her makeup, Robin falls back onto their beat-up couch with her laptop and slides her feet under Say’ri’s thighs. Within an hour, she’s passed out, not noticing that Say’ri switched her coffee for decaf while she was in the bathroom. Say’ri says a quiet thanks that Robin near exclusively drinks black coffee instead of some impossible to replicate mixture of cream and milk and gently shuts her laptop and bundles her off to bed.

* * *

The weather on Friday is near aggressively nice and Say’ri spends the day out in the park under the trees’ unfurling leaves and the falling cherry blossom petals. A pigeon investigates her purse for snacks, and she shoos it away, but no one else bothers her from her reading. As the afternoon deepens, the shadows from the buildings shift over the park, blotting out the heat of the sun that keeps the breeze’s chill at bay. She packs up and heads home to get ready for dinner.

Robin evidentially escapes work earlier than expected; she’s already home yanking dresses out of the closet with an almost frantic energy and piling the spoils all over their bed. There’s a number Say’ri’s seen only once before, near the beginning of their acquaintance several years ago at an alumnus mingle and Robin had looked transcendent with her hidden, sharp bemusement as other attendants clambered at her for a peek or insight into the workings of the State Department and being a liaison to the White House. The ballroom’s half-dim lighting glittered on the gemstones and the dark smooth fabric, an expensive armor against the hopefuls vying for Robin’s attention and good word in job applications. Say’ri hadn’t known it at the time, but as a severe lightweight, Robin was already tripping well past tipsy on the mediocre champagne and didn’t remember anyone’s names by the end of the night with nothing to say of a few weeks later when the possibilities of opening did materialize.  

“Not that one,” Say’ri instructs and stuffs the dress back into its protective cover. “That’s too extravagant and you’re going to want something comfortable to get you through the tiny portions we’re going to be served.”

“Why did your brother have to reserve us a spot at _Masa_ ,” Robin whines and dutifully hangs the discarded option back up. “I didn’t even check what that meant until this morning, there isn’t a menu, we’re just going to be served sushi at the waiter’s whims?”

“That is how it works,” Say’ri replies and goes to her side of the closet to pull out the ensemble she prepared last night.

“Excessive,” Robin says. “That’s what happens when you import all the ingredients fresh from Japan. Is your brother trying to flex on me? Why Masa, does he even _like_ Columbus Circle, because from what I know about him from the hints you’ve given me, he doesn’t seem like someone who willingly spends time near the touristy sections of the city.”

Dryly, Say’ri says, “And that’s why we’re avoiding the masses at one of the most expensive restaurants in the world.”

Robin’s frustrated noise of aggravation follows Say’ri into the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, cutting dangerously close to when they have to board the B or D to Columbus Circle, Robin gives up fretting and they run out the door. The golden light of sunset shines beatifically on the windows and granite decals of the skyscrapers. In the distance, accents of orange and brilliance climb up the Empire State Building’s spire. Then they descend into the depths of the subway.

The subways spits them back out in the middle of the Circle’s giant mash of an intersection and Say’ri grabs Robin’s hand to drag her over to mall’s entrance. With trepidation, she ducks through the doors after a tall man she saw from the distance and really, how many men are there with long, white hair?

“Yen’fay!” she calls, and her brother turns to them.

“Ah,” Robin says in a small voice in the usual reaction of the struck dumb by Yen’fay’s presence.

“Yen’fay, this is Robin. Robin, this is my brother Yen’fay,” Say’ri introduces them to each other. They eye each other up and shack hands with the usual noises of nice to meet you, a pleasure.

At the end of last summer, Robin invited Say’ri to a get together with her friends that she hadn’t elected to explain would turn into a no holds barred blood match of a volleyball game that involved far more trickery than any volleyball game legally should. As a half-feral strategist and schemer, Robin senses competition and people that pose a threat to her intelligence like a well-breed bloodhound and she always reacts predictably poorly by immediately insisting on testing people’s merits with convoluted tests and puzzles that normal human social interaction don’t involve. What’s worse, Robin never announces that she’s about to do these evaluations. Say’ri suspects with ninety percent certainty that she doesn’t even realize she should.

As such, Say’ri doesn’t even need hindsight to know it’s a colossal mistake for Robin and Yen’fay to ever meet and present sight only confirms all her worst expectations.

The meal is predictably delicious at the cost of high confusion and a half-hour discussion in the beginning between Yen’fay and the chef who knows him by name. Say’ri should have expected this, but it still catches her off guard at first and Robin watches the dialogue with slightly narrowed eyes. Yen’fay is definitely showing off at Robin for who knows what reason and Say’ri’s mortified for everyone’s sake since her brother and girlfriend don’t have the shame to feel discomfort about the situation.

“I’ve heard much about you, but Say’ri’s never mentioned how you two met,” Yen’fay asks in a statement to Robin.

“We both signed up for the wrong speaker event,” Robin answers, which is only half true. The event was supposed to be about politics in 19th century urban design, but at the last minute, the speaker canceled due to an undisclosed family or medical emergency and both Say’ri and Robin hadn’t seen the email alert until they were both loitering on the sidewalk outside the building the talk was supposed to be hosted at, waiting for someone to let them in. Five minutes into peering through the glass doors into the dark lobby and trying to get the attention of a deeply unimpressed security guard that left on a bathroom break, Robin turned to Say’ri and said, “I’m Robin, do you have an experience in breaking into buildings through fire escapes?”

After that abrupt start, Say’ri eventually learned that they both went to the same alma mater and Robin herded her towards Madison Square Park for the nearest park bench under a tree’s shade that hadn’t already been claimed by the flock of food delivery guys and their metal masses of bicycles. They exchanged numbers a few hours later when Robin’s phone starts shrieking alarms that she’s going to miss her train back down to Washington and the rest is history.

“At college?” Yen’fay fishes for more information and Robin only concedes, “After.”

He glances at Say’ri for confirmation and the chef picks this moment to start up his show, rescuing her from mediating any growing fight. This basically sets the tone for the rest of the meal, with Yen’fay and Robin trading delicately blunted inquiries and the morsels of food buoying the mood form anymore more acrimonious.

The conversation eventually turns to the matter at hand – the matter that isn’t subtle interrogation of Robin’s character – with Yen’fay saying, “What apartment options have you two considered? The window of opportunity will be closing soon with the summer rush and price hikes swiftly approaching.”

“There were a few openings in Chelsea and Murray Hill we looked at,” Say’ri opens with. “One’s advertising a two-year rent stabilized lease on a newly renovated unit. Most are one-year leases though, maybe we can push for eighteen months. And we looked at Hudson Yard at your suggestions. There are a surprising number of co-ops in that area, which is going to add onto the rent.”

“Though the commute for both of us is convenient from the Yard,” Robin admits grudgingly. “I can take the seven to UN headquarters and Say’ri can take the A or C up to Columbia for her classes.”

Yen’fay pours out another tiny cup of sake and says, “Good. I know some of the landlords in Hudson Yard, I can see about cutting out the broker fees by petitioning to them directly about approving your applications. I might even be able to reduce the application fee since they know me.”

Of course this was his motive all along. Robin leaps onto the offer with characteristic suspicion. “That’s quite generous of you.”

“For my younger sister, of course I can be generous,” Yen’fay says serenely and is spared momentarily from conversation by the chef’s return with the next delicately arranged plate of bite sized confections. Say’ri already has three and doesn’t feel any fuller after the fact. She gives thought to fleeing with Robin to the Whole Foods downstairs afterwards to admit defeat by buying an actual dinner from the obscenely organic and free-range hot bar.

“Really, that’s still very generous,” Robin insists.

Yen’fay counters with, “Do you want to pay three thousand dollars to the broker at the lease signing?” and sips his drink while Robin frowns in defeat.

He’s already paying for the three of them in this dinner alone and if he wants to show off in exchange for signing up as their guarantor, Say’ri’s not going to try fighting his internal logic.

“Are you two available Sunday to look at some properties?” he asks.

Say’ri and Robin glance at each other and shrug in unison. “We’ll be free.”

* * *

Saturday evening, Say’ri hides Robin’s laptop so she can’t use any work emergencies flaring up as an excuse to wiggle out of spending six hours walking around the humid heat of the swiftly approaching summer complete with forecasted thunderstorms. Robin mulishly pulls out her laptop from under the kitchen sink, saying, “Good try,” but none of her interns come to her rescue with operational trash fires and no one tries to blow up her projects in the thirteen hours since Say’ri stole her laptop so she says back, “Good try,” while Robin sighs and digs out her running shoes.

Between Friday and Sunday, the weather rockets up another ten degrees in temperature, despite the showers on Saturday that should have stifled the heat. The persistent heat and humidity only signal that an even heavier storm is on the way tonight and Say’ri ties back her hair appropriately for the sticky day forecasted. Robin’s shorter hair is unfortunately not long enough yet for even a tiny puff of a rooster tail, so she shoves a full battery of bobby pins against her scalp to try holding her bangs back. She tries making herself feel better by saying, “Your brother can’t be comfortable with all his hair in this heat either.”

Say’ri dashes her hopes by admitting, “Actually, I think he’ll be just fine. Yen’fay’s disturbingly resistant to feeling uncomfortable in any heat. He can outlast everyone I know in saunas and hot rooms.”

“Horrid,” Robin says while stomping her feet into her shoes.

Say’ri’s known Yen’fay all her life and lived with him for most of those years and she still doesn’t know where he picks up his acquaintances. Their parents made sure to raise him well on the etiquette and standards of their borderline noble upbringing, but somehow this translates into constantly shady connections among Yen’fay’s network of people he can call favors from. His business interactions and proper societal friends are all clean, but then Yen’fay’s introducing Say’ri to random reporters and stuntmen that should never have entered his social circle in a million years. Or people like these landlords that Yen’fay drags out of the woodworks who try selling the apartment units to Say’ri and Robin with a maniacal fervor that goes beyond simple salesmanship.

“You’re not involved with any sort of mafia, right?” Robin asks, in his face, while they take a break after unit number six for sandwiches at a nearby deli.

“No,” Yen’fay replies to Robin’s unconvinced raised eyebrow. “What do you like and dislike so far?”

“Apartment three was nice, good lighting and full amenities in the building is a huge plus,” Say’ri says as truce while Robin holds her silence. “The hallway into the unit is a disappointing drain on the floor area, but the bathroom is amusingly large and well furnished. For the rent, it’s not bad.”

“How many more are we looking at?” Robin asks, finally cleaning off her turkey wrap.

“Three more,” Yen’fay answers. “I think we can get same day approval on apartment three.”

Say’ri nods in relief. The end to this mad process is finally in sight, they’ll just have to go through the excessively paper-choked process of signing everything and then she can go back to getting beaten up by the papers due for her various classes.

“Let’s go then,” he says and stands up.

* * *

A month later, apropos of nothing, Yen’fay suddenly says in the middle of their weekly phone call, “Robin’s not that bad.”

Say’ri’s in the middle of reporting on the performance of her class in the various mock trials and how one of her teammates nearly ruined their collective grade by almost turning in the majority opinion for some case from several semesters ago instead of the minority opinion of the _actual_ assignment. The non sequitur catches her off guard and a “What?” falls out of her mouth before her brain catches up to what he’s said and she replies, “Of course, she’s not too bad. What brought this up?”

“We’ve been texting” – which, _what_ – “and she has some interesting insights on various aspects of international politics.”

“That’s her whole job,” Say’ri comments, trying to figure out when they acquired each other’s numbers. She supervised all their interactions like an anxious helicopter parent monitoring and micromanaging arranged playdates and she knows they never had a chance to exchange contacts. “Oh gods, was she critiquing your latest merger?”

Yen’fay hums in agreement, which means she _has_ and Say’ri asks in high confusion, “How do you even have each other’s numbers?”

“We wrote all our numbers on the lease agreements,” Yen’fay explains, which only answers one question and opens many more.

“ _Yen’fay_ ,” she protests.

“She texted me first,” he explains in barely sincere defense as if this makes anything better.

“ _Yen’fay, are you why Robin’s started taking yoga classes?_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote most of this in one sitting and sincerely hope I won’t actually develop a yearly tradition of writing oneshots in reaction to NYC’s real estate market. My hopes aren’t high though, since my new lease is only twelve months and it’s likely I’m going to have to move again when it expires.


End file.
